


Too many pieces

by FancifulRivers



Series: The ties you severed [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara Has Their Own Body, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Past Poisoning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Nonverbal Communication, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Soulless Pacifist Route, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: If there's one thing in this world you need, it's your knife.You don't think Sans is going to see it that way.





	1. Chapter 1

_Chara,_ Frisk signs, a couple of days after you all watched Jurassic Park together. Their brows are furrowed together and they look worried.  _You're planning something._

 _What? Why do you say that?_ You sign back. You aren't nonverbal, not usually anyway, but this is the kind of conversation you don't want to have out loud. Especially not if Frisk manages to pry out the reason for your current preoccupied state. Mom doesn't need to know that you want your knife back. Sans  _especially_ doesn't need to know. Of course, answering in ASL makes Frisk look like they have even more questions than answers. Stupid trade-offs.

 _I know you,_ Frisk says, exasperated.  _I'm still in your head, remember? Don't leave me out._

 _I'm not,_ you promise, but it's a lie. You don't  _want_ to exclude them, but how can you explain it? Frisk doesn't want to think about the resets anymore, doesn't want to remember dust sifting through their fingers. You don't want to remember either, but well. The knife is  _yours_ , not theirs.

 _I'll find out,_ Frisk tells you, but they drop it for the time being and turn back to the TV, turning on Disney Jr. You sigh. This is going to be a lot harder than you think.

The problem is, you can't think of anyone who could help you out  _but_ Sans. Frisk has the same issue as you- Mom isn't going to let either of you gallivant back to Mt. Ebott, especially not after the last time Frisk left and came back with her reincarnated dead kid spitting up blood in her living room. For that reason, too,  _Mom's_ not going to take you. Flowey's a literal houseplant (and even though he's soulless, you doubt he'd take you back either. You don't think he knows, but you heard him crying the night you came back from the hospital, whispering, "not again, Chara"). You don't really hang out with any of the other monsters very much. They visit Mom sometimes. Papyrus is very loud- too loud for your easily overloaded ears, and he's like an oversized child sometimes. You know Alphys is interested in you, but it makes you uncomfortable, especially knowing that she's responsible for Azzy's condition. Not that you want Azzy to be completely dead, you don't, but this soulless version of him is...unsettling.

Sans is the only one who comes over more than occasionally and he's now taken to hanging around you, too, as much as you don't understand why. You mostly just watch TV or play the few video games Mom will let you play (she's forbidden you from the rest after seeing how worked up you get). He slouches in the armchair everyone's unofficially designated his and...watches you. Not like he's plotting to slam a bone through your skull, just... Watching you. You don't know what to make of it and don't know how to ask after the disaster on the back steps.

But maybe he's willing to take you back to Mt. Ebott. You could spin it like wanting to grab your belongings and not mention looking for your knife at all. There's no reason for him to think of it anymore, right?

"Hey, Sans," you say the next day, when Frisk's busy talking to Flowey and won't overhear. "I uh- I got a question."

He looks surprised and you don't blame him. You don't really talk to him unless there's no other choice, after all.

"I uh- well, I had some stuff at Mt. Ebott," you say. "It got...left behind." You tactfully don't mention why. "I don't think Mom's willing to take me within five miles of the place, so I was wondering-" You stop, looking up hopefully. His face is unreadable.

Then he shrugs.

"sure, kid," he says, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

* * *

It hurts at first.

The moment Frisk's hand takes control, slashing the knife across your mother's ribs, hurts the most of all. You scream inside, scrabbling uselessly at the controls like you can do anything, like you can take it back. All you want to do is take it back. Frisk's already saved before you can blink and when they turn around in their mindscape, empty-eyed and dusty-faced, you punch them with all the force you can muster. They stumble, falling back on their ass, their physical body crumpling, too, and you kick them, your shoes sinking into the soft meat of their side.

 _How COULD you?_ You rage, tears clouding your vision. Through Frisk's eyes, you can see her dress slowly starting to disintegrate into the pile of dust. Just a small, innocuous pile of dust. The kind that she never would have let stand in her home. She'd sweep it up or ask you or Azzy to do it for her and before you know it, you're at Frisk's throat with your knife, eyes wide and red and bleeding smile stretched into the creepy face that Azzy loved you doing so much.

 _Chara,_ Frisk says in a tiny, frightened tone. _It's- it's what we planned for, what we- It's what we wanted. Is- isn't it?_

You stop. The knife falls from nerveless fingers, clattering on the floor of Frisk's mind, where you both decide to leave it. At least for now.

 _I don't know_ , you whisper, words choked with tears and hurt. _I don't- I don't like this_.

 _I don't, either_ , Frisk says, so quietly you can barely hear them. _But it... It has to be done_.

You sit there for a while, both of you, watching the wind blow eddies of dust away, disappearing into the ruins.

It's a long, long time before you venture past the doors.

* * *

 _So,_ you say, taking over Frisk's hands long enough to tear off another piece of cinnamon-dusted pastry and pop it into your mouth. It melts over your tastebuds and you swallow happily.  _Do you think he remembers?_

 _Who?_ Frisk asks. You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

 _Who do you think?_ You say, resisting the urge to look around.  _Smiley trashbag._ He's probably watching you right now, anyway. He's said it before, after all. He likes to keep tabs on you. You know you've seen flashes of the pink tufts on his slippers out of the corner of your eye. Frisk thinks you're just being paranoid, but you know you're not.

Besides, sometimes you can slip out of Frisk's body and catch him before he takes a shortcut, although then you  _know_ he can't sense you. The only one who can sense you at all this way is Frisk, who says it feels weird. Like they're standing in a cold spot, they claim. It makes you feel like one of the creepy ghosts on the TV shows your mom always liked to watch.

 _I don't know,_ Frisk says thoughtfully.  _I think so. The way he looks at me sometimes..._ They shiver, and you know it's not just from the chill of Snowdin seeping through their striped sweater.

 _Do you think he remembers_ me _?_ You ask, and you can feel Frisk's hesitation this time. Finally, just before you're ready to ask again (and steal the rest of the cinnamon bunny), Frisk speaks again.

 _...Yes,_ Frisk says.


	2. Chapter 2

You skitter back, breath a ragged sob and knife already a blurry slash in front of you, before you realize Frisk reloaded and you haven't entered the judgment hall yet.

 _Chara?_ Frisk asks hesitantly. You can feel the alarm emanating from them in waves. _It's okay, we aren't there yet. I reloaded-_

 _Obviously,_ you snark, levering yourself up by clawing at the wall. No matter how long it's been (and it feels like an eternity), you're still clumsy using Frisk's body. Maybe that's why they're so much better at dodging.

 _Maybe we should..._ Frisk trails off, but you know what they want to say. You let your lips peel back from your teeth, trying to ignore the stinging pain from how cracked they are and the dust that's managed to infiltrate your mouth. You can handle the dried blood stains on your clothes (they're  _yours_ ), but the dust seeped into every crevice makes you itch to scrub off your skin. You know Frisk feels the same way.

 _No_ , you say. In the reflection of your dagger, you see Frisk's eyes flare darker red, different from their natural reddish-brown. One of the few ways it's possible to tell that you're there. Sans knows it by now. Sans knows a lot of your tells by now, you think.  _The comedian wants a fight, doesn't he? Let's give him one._

_But Chara, you heard his speech, what if-_

You refuse to listen, keeping control of the reins and striding toward the judgment hall. Toward where Sans waits. Fuck his speech, the one you've memorized by now, those tired old words and his stupid frozen grin. You won't fail this time. He won't escape your knife this time. Your grip tightens.

This time, you'll end  _everything_.

* * *

You don't know how it happened. One minute, you were nothing but a fading remnant of a memory, trapped in a grave full of bones and a moldering striped shirt.

The next, you're in another kid's head, along for the ride.

They don't seem to know you're there, not at first. You try to poke at their thoughts, but every move you make is as ephemeral as mist. It makes you want to scream. Their soul is red like yours. Determination fizzes in their bones like it did in yours. Their name is Frisk.

They know your mom. She leaves them slices of cinnamon butterscotch pie and the room she shows them to is full of toys. Your toys. Well, yours and Azzy's. You don't know where Dad is and you're too afraid to find out. It's not like you could. Mom can't see you or sense you or- well, anything. It's like you're not even there. You wish you weren't. It's the cruelest form of hell anyone could ever devise for you. Maybe that's why you're here. You deserve it, after what you've done.

Frisk finally hears you when they're fighting Mom (and you can't believe they're in a  _fight_ with her and you swear on your locket that if they choose any option besides Mercy, you're going to find a way to  _hurt_ them) and you keep yelling at them to dodge. They pause in the middle of the battle, shocked by the voice in their head, and nearly die in that moment.

 _You idiot_ , you tell them afterward, not without begrudging affection. You  _have_ , after all, spent several days unintentionally enmeshed in their thoughts and emotions.

 _You know you like me,_ Frisk says, attempting a grin, although you know they're exhausted. You can't believe Mom's just...left you. Left both of you. It's so unlike her, but then again, nothing is like you remember.

 _Shut up_ , you tell Frisk. They grin harder, pulling the ends of their sweater over their hands and trudging deeper into the snow-slashed forest.

* * *

"ready to go?" Sans asks. You nod, swallowing hard. He grasps your hand and before you can take a breath, you're looking down the entrance of Mt. Ebott. You cough, more from surprise than anything, and your face burns with embarassment when he hands over your inhaler. Of course he remembered to bring it. Asshole.

"so where's your stuff, kiddo?" He asks. He looks ill at ease. You aren't sure if it's just because it's  _you_ or if the mountain brings back bad memories. Or both. It can always be both.

"Where I was living, duh," you say, leading the way. You hate showing him, but it's not like you can live there anymore. Not like you  _want_ to anymore. Not when you can live with Mom. Or Dad, if you needed to. Dad's already visited a couple times and said as much. You're secretly pleased he only extended the offer to you, not Frisk. Not that you think he'd say  _no_ or anything if Frisk wanted to stay with him, but Frisk doesn't have the same relationship with him that they do with Mom. You always saw  _both_ of them as your parents. It's still weird to think of them as separate. And it makes you feel horribly sour pangs of guilt because you know it's all your fault. If you hadn't decided to down buttercups by the fistful-

Well, you can't change the past. You don't even know if you can change your present. You're damn well going to try, though.

Sans makes approving noises when you get to your makeshift residence. You don't know if he genuinely approves or if it's because he's the kind of guy to have a literal trash tornado in his bedroom. You think it's probably the latter. You don't have much, mostly spare clothes, but there's some other stuff you've scavenged from the underground. And there's the knife you have to find. You haven't really searched, but you really hope it's here. If it's in the flower patch where you originally were buried, you think you're shit out of luck. There's no way that Sans will let you check out your grave. Even he isn't _that_ morbid.

As you're excavating a trash pile, you pause. Your hand brushes it, and even that tentative touch is enough to identify it.  _Found it._ Triumph thrums in your veins.

You stuff everything in a box, concealing your knife down in the bottom. Its weight is a guilty secret, burning against your hands as you lift up the box and cradle it against your chest.

"Done," you tell him, swallowing back the truth as it sticks in your throat. He doesn't need to know, you tell yourself. It's a lie of omission. That's all. You really  _did_ grab other stuff, after all, you really  _did_ want to come back. The silence of the underground feels like it's mocking you.

"come on," he says, still looking ill at ease behind his frozen grin. You hurry after him, your speed your downfall. Because it's only when you're almost free, the sunshine beckoning you in a flood of warm light, that you trip, the box flying out of your arms as you hit the ground hard. You can feel your bottom lip split open, blood spilling down your chin, and tears come to your eyes.

"whoa," Sans says, alarmed, pulling you up on scraped knees, and then you freeze.

When you fell, you spilled  _everything_. And now, lying innocently in front of you, handle pointed toward you like you could pick it up any second...

Is your knife.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Megalovania intensifies._

"I can explain," you say automatically, through numb lips. Your throat is so dry you can't swallow. All you can do is stare down at the sharp, glinting edge of your knife, nestled in the dirt. You don't want to look up. You know what you'll see.

"kid," Sans says. His voice is low, gravelly, like it was in the judgment hall. Despite yourself, you look up, neck creaking. Your hands itch to grab the knife or something- anything- to protect yourself.

His eye is flickering pure, soul blue. Wisps of unearthly light dance around his head, mesmerizing you. You feel sick.

"wanna explain what the  _fuck_ you're doing?" Sans asks. The blue intensifies. "is this just one big game to you? is that it? get me-  _me_ of all people- to bring you  _here_ so you can get..." He nods down at the dagger and you can hear laughter bubble in his chest. It sounds the farthest thing from funny.

"No, it- it's not like that," you whisper, stumbling over your words. You feel frozen and jittery at the same time, like your whole body has been dipped in an electric current. "I don't- I don't want-"

"no? then why the fuck do you want  _that_?" Sans snarls. Bones flicker to life and you cringe away.

"Because it- because it's  _mine_ , okay?!" You half-sob, half-scream at him, making him stumble back in surprise. Your hand wraps around your locket through your shirt, fingers clenched around the warmth of the metal. "It's- it's one of the only things that's  _mine_ and  _only_ mine and I- I know how it l-looks, I  _know_ it looks bad, but I don't want to hurt anyone, I just- I just  _want it back_ -"

You curl forward into the dirt, barely managing to avoid collapsing face-first into your knife and re-introducing yourself to the sight of your own blood smeared on the blade. From the corner of your eye, you can see the blue wink out, bones evaporating into thin air. Sans just stands there, looking...confused. Or as confused as a skeleton can get.

"...so," he says, sounding cautious. He lowers himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged. His slippers catch your attention, as pink and fluffy as ever. "okay. explain this to me, kid. i don't get it."

"I don't- I don't know how to explain it," you admit, pushing yourself back up into a sitting position and trying to brush the dirt off your shirt. Everything hurts and your lungs ache. You don't know if it's from your fall or your tears. "I just- the knife- I had it before I fell down." You wave a hand at the mountain around you, ignoring the stab of pain through your wrist. "It's the only thing I- I still have from. Well. Before. I mean, I have this-" You gently lift your locket free, trying your best not to get blood or dirt on it. "Azzy and I have- had- matching lockets. He gave me one. Because we're- we're siblings. But this-" You look down at the knife, not daring to reach out to it. "It's  _mine_."

"okay," the skeleton says. You look up again, needing to make sure, and relax infinitesimally. Pinpoint white pupils. No blue. No yellow. No Gaster Blasters, waiting in the wings to blast you to kingdom come, once and for all, determination be damned. "kid, you- you do know tori won't let you keep that, right?"

"Mom doesn't need to know," you say, voice brittle. "It's- it can be a secret."

"i don't keep secrets like that from tori," Sans says evenly. "not when- well. hey, kid, what did you carry a knife around for, anyway?"

Your breath stutters in your lungs. You can hear your heartbeat throb in your ears as you look at him. Still no blue, not even a wisp. You're still paranoid, fingers twitchy as you shove them into the hem of your shirt.

"It wasn't to hurt anyone else, if that's what you mean," you inform him, bitterness coating your words like the fragrant yellow petals of buttercups caught between your teeth.

"i didn't think it was," the skeleton says and you blink at him in shock. "i've seen your arms, kiddo," he adds and your eyes widen in panic.

"It's- it's not what it looks like," you stammer, trying that same old line again. Only this time, you know you don't mean it.

"so you didn't cut yourself with it," he says. You stare down in your lap, trying to ignore the ragged white lines scrawled across the insides of both arms.

"Why do you even  _care_?" You say. "You were ready to kill me, I  _know_ you were, so don't even- don't try to pretend you weren't gonna, so why do you care if I hurt myself? That's just- I'm doing your job for you, right? That's what you should  _want_. You're lazy enough, aren't you?"

You finally look back up and blink because he looks  _horrified_.

"kid, i-" He stops. "no. i-"

"Don't lie to me," you interrupt. "You thought I wanted to go all murder kid on you, so you wanted to kill me first. I get it. So." You shrug. "Why care if I get to it first?"

"kid." Sans swallows and you can hear his neck bones click. "i don't want you to die." You laugh, the sound more than a little reminiscent of the way you used to laugh in the judgment hall as he killed you, and you can see the memory flare to life in his eye sockets.

"Yes, you do," you tell him. "You want to keep Frisk because they're the good kid, right? They're the one who was led astray by the demon kid." You point at yourself with one shaking, bloodstained finger. "Well-" Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "You wanna know a secret?"

He doesn't answer, but you don't care as you keep going.

" _Frisk's the one who killed Mom, not me_."

You lean back, watching the emotions (what little you can understand) play out on his face.

"You don't believe me, do you," you say. "That's okay. Ask Frisk. They'll tell you. They killed Mom. Not me. It was their hand wielding that knife." You nod towards it, still lying in the dirt. "We were a _team_. We _both_ killed everyone during that- that route. And we _both_ chose to reset and save everyone. But you know." You shrug again. "I know you don't believe that. It's probably Mom's fault you keep trying to pretend you want to be friends or something, right? I get it. Just let me-" You make a slashing motion across your own throat and watch his shoulders tense up. "Accidents happen all the time around here, right? People who go to Mt. Ebott don't come back. That's why I came here in the first place."

"kid," Sans says, sighing. "i know what you're doing."

"What?" You sneer.

"goad me into hating you," he says and you freeze. "it's not going to work. I know we got a complicated...whatever this is." He motions between the two of you. "and i jumped to conclusions and i'm sorry for that, but. i'm not gonna hate you. or frisk. hell, i'll even let you bring that back." He nods toward the knife and your mouth drops open. "but you ain't keeping it. you're giving it to tori after she heals you."

You don't answer.

You don't think you can come up with anything he wants to hear.

* * *

 "Chara?"

You refuse to lift your face from the pillow, tucking your arms securely underneath it. Who cares if blood stains the sheets some more? You already bled all over them. Miss Toriel's already going to be mad at you. Why not compound it?

"Chara, is it- are you mad at me?" Azzy's voice quivers and without even looking, you can tell he's got  _that_ face again. All wet and trembly and big-eyed. Probably tugging on his own ears, the way he does when he's particularly distressed.

"No, Azzy," you mumble into your pillow. "I'm not mad at you." The only one you're mad at is yourself. You  _pushed_ him. You  _hurt_ him. You didn't mean to, but he-

You were playing. Outside, like you always do now, because Toriel and Asgore encourage both of you to go out, and Azzy's thrilled to have a constant playmate. You saw something- you don't even know what you saw anymore, but it made you  _remember_ , and the next thing you know, Azzy  _touched_ you, and you-

You lashed out. You shoved him away. The last thing you remember is him falling on his butt in the dirt, a bleat of distress echoing as his paws flew up, disbelief in his eyes.

He didn't know that you could do that. But you did. You  _always_ know. You're a  _demon_ and now you've  _hurt_ the monster prince and now you- Well. The king and queen won't want you around anymore. Why would they? You  _hurt their son_. Sure, he sounds fine now, but you know that Mo- that Toriel has healing magic. She probably just healed him. And she's going to come in soon to tell you that it's time for you to leave, barrier or not. It's exactly what you deserve.

Your arms burn and you clench your fingers, digging your nails into your palms. You didn't mean to do it so many times. But you were alone and- that's what happens when you're alone and angry at yourself. Blood smeared across your skin and sticking your arms to your pillowcase. Your knife, rescued from your old life, shoved hastily under the bed.

The door creaks open and you freeze. Dread uncurls in your stomach. This is it then.

"Asriel, I'd like you to leave Chara and I for a bit," Toriel says. She doesn't  _sound_ angry, but you know that doesn't mean anything.

Your parents didn't sound angry all the time, either.

"But Mom-" Azzy protests.

"Go play with your father," Toriel instructs. Now her voice is a little sharper, but not much. You hear Azzy shuffle out of the room. Your stomach hurts so much.

"Chara?" Footsteps, and then your bed dips beneath Toriel's weight, although she's careful to maintain some distance. She knows you don't like to be touched. "My child, can you tell me what happened?"

"I'm a bad kid, all right?" You say, turning your head to the side so your pillow doesn't completely muffle your words. "That's what happened."

"Asriel says that something spooked you outside and you accidentally pushed him," Toriel continues, unfazed. "Can you tell me what?"

"No," you say. "I- I don't know."

"I'm sorry that happened, Chara," Toriel says, and shifts just a little closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth of her fur. "I know that your life on the surface was-" She hesitates. "Not the best," she settles on. "I want you to know that you aren't in trouble. Asgore and I understand."

 _That_ doesn't seem right. Sure, maybe for other stuff. But you pushed her _kid_. Her _real_ kid. She's told you before that you can think of the Dreemurrs as your family, but that's just it. It's not real. It's a fantasy. A thought exercise. You're not _really_ part of her family and you never will be.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your throat sharp and aching with the effort of holding back tears. "I didn't- Is Azzy okay?"

"He's fine," Toriel says warmly. "It only startled him. That's all. He's more concerned about _you_. Are you all right now?"

"I-" You hesitate, your arms still stinging.

"No," you admit, and unpeel yourself from the fabric, wincing as the dried edges re-open.

"Oh, my child," Toriel says softly and places her paws gently on your hands, sending her magic through you. It feels warm, like a slice of her butterscotch cinnamon pie. When she lifts her paws away, your wounds are healed, though drying blood still streaks your skin.

"Let's go clean you up, shall we?" She suggests. Sniffing hard, trying to pretend you don't have tears in your eyes, you nod.


	4. Chapter 4

Sans shortcuts you back to your room. Frisk audibly gasps when they see you, slump-shouldered with your arms full of stray belongings. It's only then you remember you're still beat to shit. Oops.

 _Chara? What happened?_ Frisk demands. You shrug, trying not to wince.

"I tripped," you say. It's the truth, but you know it doesn't sound it. Flowey gives you a hard, appraising look and you think you can see anger in his eyes.

"Did smiley trashbag do that to you?" He asks. His voice flickers and distorts around the edges, making Frisk shiver before they catch themself.

"No, you reassure him. "I really did trip."

He doesn't look convinced, but he goes back to his Gameboy willingly enough. Moments later, Mom enters the room, exclaiming over your injuries and healing them with the same soft, warm wash of magic you remember from so many times before. Sans slouches back in behind her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ratty blue jacket.

"Chara, can you come with me?" Mom requests. "I'd like to speak to you."

You glare over her shoulder at Sans. Asshole. You knew he'd tell. Now you'll never get back your knife. It's not fair.

"Fine," you acquiesce, following Mom out of your room and into hers down the hall. The master bedroom is enormous, but it feels so much smaller with her in it. She sits down on the bed and pats the duvet next to her. You sit reluctantly, glaring harder at Sans as he closes the door for a modicum of privacy. Like Frisk and Flowey won't be doing their damnedest to listen in on the other side of the door. You aren't stupid.

"Sans told me about this," Mom says quietly, lifting your knife out of her apron pocket. You swallow hard, sitting on your hands so you don't try to reach for it.

"It's mine," you whisper. You can tell that Mom recognizes it. Why wouldn't she? You know she won't recognize it dusting her (thank god for small favors), but she's seen it tossed to one side too many times, your arms or legs covered in bloody lines. She's seen you cradle it like some kind of fucked up teddy bear because it's your last link to the surface world.

There's no way she _doesn't_ recognize it.

"I know it is, my child," Mom says, her voice patient. "I remember."

"Oh," you say. You trace aimless scribbles in your lap with your index finger. "I- Can I have it back?" Mom and Sans exchange a look.

"I...don't know," Mom admits. "I understand its important to you, but-"

"I won't hurt myself with it," you interrupt, promising recklessly. "I won't do anything bad with it at all, ever, I swear, I-"

"Chara," you've promised that before," Mom says gently and you stop mid-sentence.

"...Oh," you say again.

"Would you be amenable to me keeping it right now?" Mom asks. "Not permanently," she adds, probably noticing how betrayed you look. (You certainly  _feel_ betrayed.) "I know how emotionally significant it is for you. I mean for the moment, until you and I can come up with a more sustainable plan long-term."

"I- I guess," you mumble reluctantly. It's not like you can just steal it from her, after all. Mom's pretty fast on her feet, even if she doesn't look it. And you have a feeling that if you make a single wrong move, you'll be wrapped in blue.

"Thank you, my child," Mom says, slipping the knife back in her pocket and opening her arms slightly. You fling yourself into them, feeling them close around your back. You don't cry more, but it's a near thing. You can feel the sting in your eyes.

"We'll figure something out," Mom promises you, stroking back messy wisps of your hair. "I just want you to be safe, Chara. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess," you say, shooting another glare over your shoulder at the skeleton. Sans just looks vaguely amused. Asshole.

"You can go play now," Mom says, and you scoot off the bed, whipping open the door as fast as you can and laughing when Frisk falls in the room, Flowey wobbling in his pot.

"You assholes," you say, affection thick in your tone as Mom murmurs "Language" behind you and Frisk's face flames like a sunset. Flowey just smirks at you.

"Like we wouldn't listen in," he says, and you _know_ you don't miss that look he gives Sans. "Besides, haven't you learned not to play with knives yet, Chara?"

"No," you retort haughtily and push past both of them.

* * *

 "Chara?"

You don't look up when Azzy tiptoes in and closes the door. He sits on the bed next to you, but doesn't touch you. He knows how you feel about touch when you're in this kind of mood.

"Mom says- he's going to be fine," Azzy says in a rush, nervously twisting his ears. "It's not bad and he's not angry at- at either of us. He knows it was an accident. Mom just said if we wanna bake anything again, we gotta ask her or Dad to supervise, that's all. It's okay, Chara."

"No, it's not," you say. Your voice is quiet, but so bleak it makes Asriel flinch. "Maybe for you," you amend. But you don't finish the thought. _Never for me_.

"Dad says he thinks it was funny," Azzy mumbles. "Just-"

"Just stop," you interrupt, and you hate yourself when you see the look of hurt spreading across Azzy's face. "I'm sorry," you say, slumping against your bed. "I just- I fucked up, Azzy." He must really be feeling bad because he doesn't even tell you 'swear jar,' just keeps staring at you with those wide, damp eyes.

"It was s'posed to be funny," Azzy says weakly.

"And instead we poisoned Dad," you finish, voice bitter. Let's be real, your mind continues. _You_ poisoned Dad. It's not like it's Azzy's fault. You both came up with the idea of using buttercups instead of a cup of butter, but that doesn't matter. You're usually the ringleader. He listens to you. You should have known. You should have stopped it _. But how could I know that buttercups are poisonous to monsters?_ The other part of your mind wails, the part where all you want to do is rock and scream and cry so much, you drown in your own tears. _I didn't know. I didn't know!_

Ignorance has never been an excuse.

There's a gentle tap at the door and your head flies up as you scrub furiously at your eyes. A moment later, Mom peeks her head around the doorframe.

"Chara? Asriel?" She says. "Would you like to see him?"

You open your mouth to say no, but Azzy's already dragging you off the bed and out the door. You only hope you can stop crying before you reach Mom and Dad's bedroom.


End file.
